


Five Times John Doesn't Come Home

by Peanutbutterer



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: 5 Things, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peanutbutterer/pseuds/Peanutbutterer





	Five Times John Doesn't Come Home

\-- 1

“Sir,” Lorne argues with barely bridled frustration, “I still don’t believe that this is the best course of action.”

They’re sitting on a hard rock floor, the same floor they’ve been sitting on for the last two and a half months, but tonight it feels different, as though the ever-present chill has finally bled its way through their clothing and through their skin and is now languidly seeping into their bones.

Though his accompanying scoff is little more than a whisper, Sheppard does manage to raise an incredulous eyebrow. “You think we have options?”

“Let me do it,” Lorne implores recklessly, meeting his commander’s eyes for the first time in days. There’s a note of futility in the words that he’s unable to suppress. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the argument is pointless, that Sheppard will never agree to it regardless of the fact that it’s the right thing to do. This is the one place where the military commander of Atlantis has consistently failed as a leader: John Sheppard is unable to delegate death.

Not that Lorne blames him.

Predictably, Sheppard doesn’t dignify the request with a response.

The colonel’s eyes are slightly glassy and void of color but he speaks in a strong, clear voice. “Take care of my city, Major.”

Lorne clenches his jaw and tightens his grip across the stock of his gun. He will, Lorne swears. He will.

\-- 2

“Damn it, Rodney, I said move!” John shoves the astrophysicist along the narrow path, the sound of weapons fire over the din of the storm pulsing a sharp, staccato beat in his ears. In front of them, Teyla wrestles with a native, disabling him with a blow to the solar plexus. Behind them Ronon leaves a trail of fallen soldiers in his wake.

Rodney fumbles his footing, pitching forward, clutching his prize and bracing himself for impact. John’s hand reflexively grabs at his vest, just preventing the fall and saving the delicate technology.

“Stop pushing me!” McKay yells through ragged breaths. At any other time John would rejoin with a sarcastic quip, but right now he's got his finger on his trigger and his team’s life at stake, so he opts not to spare his attention.

Twenty paces ahead, Teyla finds the DHD. She blinks sweat from her eyes as she inputs the address, and when Rodney and John finally reach her she nods to indicate that the shield has been lowered.

The moment before the bullet pierces Rodney's shoulder Ronon kills the man who fired it.

John can’t get to Rodney before he falls. Instead he picks him up from the mud while Teyla hurriedly gathers scattered pieces of their now fractured device.

“Flesh wound,” John breathes, relieved. He looks over his shoulder to catch Teyla’s eye. “He’ll be fine.”

Rodney grumbles a protest but John pulls him to his feet anyway, heaving him through the event horizon much like a rag doll. He turns to see Ronon closing the distance to their escape, enemy soldiers still tight on his tail.

With a hasty “go” from the colonel, Teyla follows Rodney through the Gate with as much of the instrument as she’s able to hold. John turns to give cover to the last of his team.

Ronon is the only Lantian remaining to see him fall, two shots to the chest. The Satedan roars at the rain, at the soldiers, but in the end all he can do is drag his commander through the wormhole. He receives a bullet in the arm for his trouble.

But he feels no pain.

\-- 3

A fresh pint of beer slides into his field of vision.

Elizabeth nods to the drink. “For you. Been waiting long?” she asks, easing into the booth across from him. She sips at her buttered rum carefully, the hot drink doing little to warm her chill.

He shakes his head. “I wanted to get a head start.”

“You look tired,” she notices. His face is shrouded in shadow but she can still make out the dark circles under his eyes and the line of clenched muscles that span his jaw.

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, letting his eyes slide shut briefly. Opening them, he waves a hand at the bar. “It’s just this transition,” he says.

The quiet settles over them like a thick blanket, broken only by occasional stirring and sipping. It feels unnatural, entirely unlike the comfortable lull they’re used to experiencing when conversation fades. She focuses on turning her cup in her hands.

When she can no longer bear the silence Elizabeth inclines her head toward the front of the room. “There’s mistletoe above the door. Did you get caught on the way in?”

“Christmas sucks.”

She shrugs in acquiescence and knits her fingers together. “This year at least.”

John makes a noncommittal noise and drains the last of his drink. A waitress passes the booth and he reaches out, snagging her forearm to grab her attention.

As the she skirts away with his order Elizabeth eyes him carefully. She knows what his reaction will be but she can’t seem to help herself. “You sure you should have more?”

“Don’t baby me, Elizabeth. You don’t have that right anymore.”

The comment stings - as he no doubt intended - but she lets it pass, opting instead to grin wryly. “Did I ever?”

He doesn’t respond, turning his attention back to his empty glass; as if somehow he could find something of value inside. He looks so different – so hollow. She feels a shameful blush overtake her.

The words that come from her mouth are pleading, a desperate tone that she doesn’t fully recognize. “I tried, John –”

He shrugs and when he speaks his voice is flat. “I know.”

“I won’t stop trying,” she continues, the platitude grating to her ears. She places her hand over his and wills him to look at her.

He doesn’t. Instead he takes a deep breath and says softly, “I know that too.”

He does know that – she knows he does – but it isn’t enough.

“This is not the end,” she insists.

“Feels like it,” he admits as the waitress deposits another drink. He finally meets Elizabeth’s eyes and is surprised to find her blinking rapidly. His gaze slides back to the table and his fingers twist themselves around his glass.

She swirls the remainder of the drink in her cup, her thoughts spinning in time with the liquid.

“Do you ever wonder,” she muses quietly, still focused on her drink, “what would have happened if things had gone differently?” Her lashes flutter over her cheeks and he thinks that she’s beautiful.

“When?” he asks.

“Pick a time.” She waves a hand.

He trails his fingers over the condensation on his glass. “All the time.”

“Me too,” she says. Her hair slips out of its twist and brushes over her cheek. “Listen, John,” she begins in a rush, “there are some things that we’ve never…” She bites her lip as she tries to formulate the words. “Some things we didn’t discuss that –”

“Elizabeth,” her name is a sigh, “now who’s acting like this is the end?”

Her smile is weak but genuine. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know – never mind.” She’s never been this wishy-washy in her life. She clenches her hands into fists and tells herself to buck up.

John looks to the clock on the wall, its steady motion a constant reminder of the changes to come. He averts his eyes; he doesn’t want to watch the seconds slip by. “You should go.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t want to miss the boat. Someone has to hold down the fort now that I’m reassigned.”

She slides out of the booth reluctantly and steps up beside him. She tries to imprint this memory – the curve of his face, the shade of his eyes. Dropping a hand on his shoulder she leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Take care of yourself, John,” she whispers quietly as she pulls away.

He places his hand lightly on hers and considers not letting go. “You too, Elizabeth.” He lets his hand drift back to his drink. “And remember not to take any shit from Colonel Tucker. Assignment or not, I’ll hop galaxies to kick his ass.”

As she walks out the door she smiles. Definitely not the end.

\-- 4

“What?” Elizabeth closes her eyes as if the darkness will make her better able to hear the faint, tinny words that echo from her comm.

“Sheppa...ness...unable...where...” Rodney's voice blurs with the static; if it weren't so cracked she would swear to a note of distress in his tone.

“I can’t understand you Rodney. We’re lowering the shield.” She nods to the technician.

Against her better judgment she makes her way down the stairs and into the gateroom.

Teyla appears first, then Ronon. Then Rodney, followed closely by the barrel of John’s gun. By the time the colonel materializes completely Elizabeth's heart is in her throat.

His eyes are steely and sharp and his voice is eerily detached. “Doctor Elizabeth Weir.”

The chill of the words hits her with blunt force, knocking the wind from her lungs and leaving her struggling for breath. Her hand involuntarily clutches at her chest as she attempts to pull herself together and bring into focus the picture before her. The rest of the team is disarmed, if unbound, but their eyes flit nervously between John and each other. A trail of blood trickles down the side of Teyla’s head, Ronon’s nose appears to be broken and Rodney is radiating fear.

The wormhole disengages and Elizabeth fights the urge to take a step backward and shield herself behind a wall of marines. Instead she stands to her full height. “Colonel,” her voice is even and clear – the antithesis of the thoughts that rush through her head, “what’s going on?”

His face contorts into something that vaguely resembles a grin. “Tell your security team to stand down,” he orders. He presses the muzzle of his gun to the back of Rodney's neck. “Now.”

“John,” she soothes, “put the gun down and talk to me.” She makes eye contact with Teyla in a desperate attempt to find out what the hell is going on but is unable to decipher the response. The only thing she finds in the woman’s eyes is an ill-fitting panic. Elizabeth wonders at the fact that she sees no confusion. Obviously, the off-world team knows exactly what is happening here.

The marine security team looks to her for instruction. She hesitates only a moment before inclining her head slightly.

“I think I'll keep it right here for now,” he answers, jamming his weapon harder into Rodney and causing him to whimper. John laughs. “You don’t like that, Doctor Rodney McKay?”

She's only half listening to John's taunts as she silently gathers the attention of her security team, Teyla and Ronon. The marines grip their weapons tightly and the warriors tremble with burning anger and frustration.

She wishes Major Lorne were here.

On her nod the room erupts into a flurry of action. Teyla pulls Rodney away as Ronon tackles John to the ground. The Satedan lands on top, the two men wrestling and grunting – half a dozen marines surround them, assorted stunners and even a pair of P90s poised at the ready. She imagines watching bullets pierce his flesh and prays that they don't have to use them.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. When the colonel’s weapon fires into Ronon’s stomach someone discharges a stunner – incapacitating John.

Beckett manages to save Ronon after hours of surgery. The alien entity that had taken over the colonel died when struck by the stunner blast, but Carson’s best guess is that John himself was dead long ago.

She finds little solace in that.

\-- 5

He should be asleep.

All of the elements are there. The whir of the ventilation system is rhythmic in its persistence, like a whispered song on repeat. The only light that mars the black of night spills from a desk lamp across the room, creating a milky haze that allows for warmth but little visibility. The last time he actually reclined was some fifty odd hours ago.

But John Sheppard is wide awake.

It’s been a traumatic couple of days. Things began, as they always do, with what promised to be a routine negotiation. The Ongarians were the typical, garden variety Pegasus farming community. They gave the Genii performance as rural agrarian a run for the money – which should have been the first clue. The second should have been that Elizabeth was along for the tour.

The beeping of her heart monitor is steady and strong now, both a painful indicator of her feeble condition and a reassuring reminder of her presence. He feels the echoes of the machine pulse through him, coursing through his veins and interwoven through his blood, forcing his heart to pound in sync with hers.

“John?” asks a small voice so unlike Elizabeth’s that, were it not for the familiar way it causes his stomach to flip, he might not have recognized it.

“I'm here,” he whispers, reaching for her gently. She turns her hand over beneath his and her fingers fold against the back of his hand. His thumb rubs over her palm, soothing the only part of her that he’s sure doesn’t hurt. “I’m here, Elizabeth.”

“What happened?” she asks shakily. “What – where are we?”

This is the third time she's awoken without her short term memory – a side effect that Beckett says is to be expected and promises is only temporary.

“You were captured, Elizabeth.” He takes a deep breath, guilt creeping up his spine, urging him not to tell her of his failure but knowing that there’s no other way to explain. “The Ongarians imprisoned you for eight days. They tortured you, drugged you and tried to get information from you.”

A solitary tear slips down her face and he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb. This is his penance – telling her anew time after time. He deserves no less than the heartache it causes.

Her fingers flex in his. “But, McKay – and Teyla, what about Teyla? The blood... god, John there was so much blood.”

“They're fine,” he assures her. “Nothing happened to them.” The false memories are also to be expected, but it doesn't make them any easier to bear. Whatever she thinks she experienced, or what she thinks the others experienced, is gruesome and painful and another form of torture that she doesn't deserve.

“Rest, Elizabeth. You'll feel better in the morning.” He hopes he’s not lying.

Her eyes flutter closed and her breathing steadies. He trails his fingers softly along the back of her hand, doing anything he can to calm her.

The room falls again to silence, the kind of quiet that leaves a man with only the sound of the voices in his head. The kind that leaves a man to reflect on things he'd rather ignore.

He shouldn't have let her go off world, he knows that now. He should have locked her in the control room like Rapunzel in her tower – never to let danger cross her path. It's unrealistic, to be sure, but that doesn't stop him from thinking it's the best course of action.

Elizabeth’s breath hitches and her eyes snap open. John squeezes her hand, cold, clammy fingers limp in his grasp.

“John?” she asks tentatively, confusion and fear etched in her features. She has a visible moment of realization and he allows himself the hope that this time she's fully cognizant, that this time she's woken up for good.

“You came home,” she says tearfully, clinging desperately to his hand. “John, you came home.”

He swallows hard before taking her hand in both of his and squeezing tightly. “No, Elizabeth, no. I didn’t come home.” He brings her palm to his face, cupping it to his cheek. “I never left."

 _I’ll never leave_ , he adds silently.


End file.
